The Wistful Show

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2026-08-24 17:37:06 -

The Wistful Show

Gladys Priddy stood in the mud of the ancestral manor, clutching a withered wisteria vine, and I knew then that the ruin was not my fault, but the village’s prejudice against my father’s witchcraft. The mud was deep, a slurry of sawmill runoff and rotting leaves that sucked at my boots with a wet, heavy pull, and the air smelled of wet iron and the sharp, green tang of the bleeding sap on my...

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